


Patriots

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's One Job, Don't copy to another site, Fourth of July, Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Referenced Past Underage, Season/Series 15, Wincest Anniversary, first time in a long time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam huffed. “Dude, what are we even doing out here?”“Taking the night off! You know, fun! Remember fun?”(or, Sam and Dean celebrate on the Fourth of July.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 125





	Patriots

**Author's Note:**

> Love forever and always to [nisaki-chan](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com), my rock and inspiration.

Potholed two-lane shot straight through the backwoods, no speed limits and no stripes. Elbows hooked out open windows; Grand Funk Railroad blared. Sam breathed in the muggy, mossy smell of muddy riverside. Sunset stained the sky and the trees swayed.

Engine idled down at a four-way stop. Whitewashed country church sign proclaimed _GOD BLESS AMERICA_ and Dean, penlight in his mouth and a hand-drawn map spread across his thigh, glanced over and wagged his eyebrows.

Sam huffed. “Dude, what are we even doing out here?”

“Taking the night off! You know, fun! Remember fun?”

Barely. Something about knowing God Himself was trying to end them, unsurprisingly, hadn’t put Sam in a festive mood.

“Look, man.” Dean turned down the music. “I know,” vague, sort of, _everything_ gesture, “’s been a lot harder on you than it has on me.”

Sam eyed him.

“You _had_ faith. Even when the proof started piling up. Even when…” Dean shook his head. “Me?” Sharp exhale. “God’s not supposed to be a hack horror writer, you feel me?”

 _Quoting_ In the Mouth of Madness, Sam thought, _doesn’t really inspire a lot of confidence._

Dean cranked the stereo and peeled out. Half a mile, three-quarters, maybe, he steered off the blacktop onto red dirt. Dust plumed like a rooster tail and gravel crackled.

Sam jostled. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked as they bounced in a rut.

“Fuck yeah!” Dean said. “Mackey swears we’ll have the best seats in the house.”

Fireflies flickered, flitted through the trees. Sweat trickled down Sam’s neck and Dean rumbled over a timber bridge, into a clearing. Headlights fell on Mackey’s hideout. Clapboard stilt house, peeling paint and drooping stairs. Corrugated metal roof sloped gently, overhung a porch with a rough-hewn railing.

Dean pulled in between the stilts and cut the engine. Crickets sang. Car doors creaked. Sam stretched, cracked his neck and shook his shoulders out. Dean popped the trunk.

“Lantern,” mumbling, “sleeping bags…”

Sam held his arms out, let Dean load him up.

“Beers.” Dean thumped the cooler. “Mission motherfuckin’ critical.”

Sam almost laughed.

“Toilet paper!” Dean perched the roll on top of Sam’s armload; Sam secured it with his chin. “C’mon.” Dean slung a duffel strap across his shoulder, cooler in hand. Keys gleamed. “We’ll get the Coleman stove in the morning.”

He led the way up gray-weathered steps, rickety enough to make Sam a little nervous. Screen door squeaked and shuddered. Dean had to put down the cooler and give the main door a shoulder-check to get it unstuck. Sam followed him in, scrunched his nose against the musty air. Fast-fading daylight streamed between shutter slats.

“Let’s get these open, huh?” Dean headed for the nearest window.

Sam set his gear on a dropcloth-draped table and got to work. Latches clicked and hinges squealed. No glass, just mosquito screens. Light and air flowed in as they leapfrogged their way around the room. Dean finished first and moved to a loveseat, whipped off its cover and threw a ton of dust in the air. He sneezed.

“ _Gesundheit_ , dumbass.” Sam stifled his own sneeze.

Dean gave him the finger and moved to an armchair—which, he stripped a lot more carefully. Sam smirked to himself, secured his last shutter and got to work uncovering a pair of bunk beds tucked in a corner. From behind, Dean’s gaze pressed him like a weight between his shoulders.

 _One of these days,_ Sam thought, _I’m gonna spin around and catch him in the act, red-fucking-handed._ Even though, Sam knew, Dean would deny everything, same as he’d done ever since that night he found a fat envelope stamped Stanford University.

Footsteps, loud on the floor planks. Dean nudged past with his sleeping bag.

“Dude, no,” Sam said. “You should take the big bed.”

Dean elbowed him. “Not a chance, Goliath.” Bedroll thumped the thin mattress.

“Dean…”

“I’m the oldest. Still the boss of you.”

“Dream on.”

“I will!” Dean spread out his sleeping bag. “Right here on this bunk.” Smug, satisfied grin, and…

Sam shook it off. His imagination, wishful thinking. Gets him every year, this time of year. Sepia-stained memories of a dry hayfield, box of rockets, flavor of his brother’s smile.

“Come on,” Dean said. “Outside. Don’t wanna miss—”

Light flashed. Red, white, and blue rose from the far bank. Heartbeats later, whooshes and cracks punched through the forest noise.

“Dammit!” Dean took off, banged through the screen door. “Told ya.” Pointed. “Best seats in the house.” Fireworks flew high above the water. Glimmering sparks sailed up and burst into colors. “Shit,” Dean said. “Almost forgot!” He dashed back inside the shack and out again. Tossed Sam a long, slim box.

Sparklers.

“Let’s light ’em up!” Dean fished his Zippo from his pocket.

“Whoa.” Sam backed up, half a step. “You think that’s, y’know, safe?” He gestured at the wood construction.

“Good point,” Dean said. “We should…” Little head-nod and he turned for the stairs. “Grab the cooler, huh?” He snagged two cheap white plastic lawn chairs.

Opposite riverbank, some no-name town’s municipal Fourth of July show carried on. Fans and flowers, great gold streaks and booming mortars.

Dean poured out half his sparkler box, held them in a bundle. “Dude. Seriously. Don’t leave me hangin’ here.”

Sam blinked. Sweat rings peeked from underneath Dean’s arms. Psychedelic colors interspersed with silver moonrise on his face. Dean looked… otherworldly. Decades—lives and afterlives—melted off him in the sun of his smile. Sam fumbled with his fireworks. Took two.

“Come on, coward, live a little!” Dean brandished his bundle.

Sam sighed, fished out two more. “Happy now?”

“Better,” Dean said, soft-eyed smirk. “Time was, you’da lit the whole box.”

Sam remembered. _“Fire in the hole!”_ he’d yelled, no idea how many meanings that’d end up taking on.

Dean clink-clicked his Zippo, held a flame out. “Ladies first.”

“Fuck you, man.” Perfunctory. Sam’s sparklers hissed to life, yellow-gold. Hot molten metal sprayed and blue-gray smoke stung his nose. Sulfury.

Dean’s fistful flared. “Statue of Liberty!” He posed, and, “Ow!” He ducked away from falling sparks.

Sam snort-laughed. Overhead, a cluster of screeching streamers pop-pop-popped, shined off the water. Dean drew figure-eights, spun in a circle. Afterimage trailed.

“You just gonna stand there?”

“Uh.” Half-burned, spent wires curled. Sam waved his arms around.

“That’s the spirit.” Dean’s smile lingered. “Sam,” he spelled in the air, “Winchester…”

“Dude,” Sam warned.

“Loves—” Fire went out. “Shit.”

Sam’s eyes took a second to adjust. Sky filled with silver star-shapes. Soaring. Blazing. Stinking. Burnt gunpowder.

“Beer?” Dean flopped on a lawn chair. Flipped up the cooler top.

“Sure.” Sam settled. Chairs set close enough their knees brushed.

Dean popped two longnecks and passed one over. Fingers squeezed and ice-melt dripped on Sam’s jeans; both gave him shivers.

“To us.” Dean cocked an eyebrow. Crossed-neck toast and his tongue gleamed, slicked his lips as he raised his drink.

Fireworks fell silent. Water lapped, cicadas cried.

Sam drank. “Damn. Think they’re done already?”

“Nah, I doubt it. Probably just rigging up—”

On cue, round two burst above. Whoosh-snap followed, fast light and slow sound. Sam stared up. Chain-bursts, lingering green. Flickering, falling.

“This is good, right?” Dean rasped. “It’s like, tradition or some shit.”

Sam startled. They _never_ talked about—

“How many fire trucks, you think, had to clean up that mess?”

Dry-mouthed, “I-uh. No idea. I mean, three, at minimum, right?”

“Aw, you underestimate us, Sammy.” Elbows bumped. “I figure, anything short of a five-alarm don’t do us justice.”

Sam glanced, double-take, and Dean held his gaze. Smirk burned. Dean tipped his beer. Sam tore away. Unholy belch gave him room to breathe.

“Hey,” Dean said. “Bottoms up, slowpoke.”

Sam closed his eyes. _Talk about so many meanings…_

“Who knows when we’ll get another chance like this?” Dean’s hand dangled off his armrest. Knuckles grazed Sam’s thigh, incidental. _Accidental_.

Plausibly deniable.

Sam finished his drink.

“There you go!” Dean beamed. “C’mon. Let’s burn some more shit.”

Sparklers. Strings of firecrackers. Packs of rockets, shot straight from their fingers. Dean laughed, hot-stepped when the explosions jumped too close. Sam lightened. Had to! Dean’s little-kid grin dragged him back through time, to when all he had to fight was loneliness and… other things they never talked about.

Pyrotechnics picked up, grand finale. Strains of “Stars and Stripes Forever” drifted faintly. Sam stared up.

Dean drained his third beer. Wandered close and bumped Sam’s shoulder. “See? I told you, fun!”

Sam shrugged.

“Oh, come on!” Dean groused. “Even _you_ gotta admit this was awesome.”

Sam nodded. Not really lying, he just, “Why, though?”

Dean’s face scrunched.

“Seriously. Why… _this_?” Mixed-up, mixed feelings twisted his gut.

“’Cause you deserve it, Sammy,” soft. Dean faced him, in his space. Radiated, body hotter than the summer.

“But—”

“But nothin’,” Dean insisted.

“Chuck—”

“Can fuck himself.” Hand on Sam’s chest like molten metal. “He doesn’t get this, you and me.”

Sam’s heart raced. Sweat slid down his neck.

“We’ve got through everything he’s thrown at us,” Dean said. “Just us. Together. He doesn’t—” Dry chuckle, and a muttered, “Fuck it.”

Dean kissed him.

Sam froze. Goosebumps sprang up. Dean’s warm lips gripped his. Arms circled his waist.

“You know,” Dean breathed in his mouth, “you were a lot less uptight the last time—”

Sam gave in. Seized Dean, smashed into him. Opened up and welcomed Dean’s tongue. Dean hummed, groped Sam’s ass. Teeth clicked and knees knocked. Sam groaned.

Pried himself away. “Dean, are you sure you want—”

“I never stopped wanting, Sammy, I just…”

Sam flushed. How had he been such a moron? “You never said anything.”

“Fuck no, I didn’t.” Dean’s eyes closed. Pale moonlight washed him out, but he was still the most vibrant thing Sam had ever seen. “You had—y’know—plans and shit. Apple-pie life.”

“You’re the one who loves pie.” Warmth washed over Sam. He’d have to ask what changed, eventually, but right then? “Take me upstairs.”

“Sammy!” Dean leered. “I love where your head’s at!”

Sam grinned, embers of affection.

“I’ll love it even more when it’s…” Dean stepped back, cupped a hand a few inches in front of his crotch.

“Wow,” Sam said, dry. “Nice, Dean. Real romantic on our anniversary.”

“Anniversary?” Dean’s eyes got big. “Huh. Yeah, I guess it is!”

Sam shook his head. Palmed his brother’s jaws and drew him in again. “We gonna celebrate or what?”

Dean spread his hands and oversold offended. “What the fuck you think all this was?”

Sam laughed. “You’re hopeless.” Spun on his heel and headed towards the house.

Dean’s footsteps shadowed him up the stairs. Smoke-tainted mist rolled off the river. Screen door banged. Sam barely had a chance to switch the lantern on and Dean was on him. Fingers hooked his belt loops; lips brushed behind his neck. Dean frog-marched Sam to the big bed, spun him around and kissed him filthy. Tugged his hair to move his head around. Licked in his mouth.

Sam scrabbled at Dean’s t-shirt. Fingers brushed warm skin. Dean raised his arms and let Sam strip him, barely let up kissing. Skipped Sam’s shirt and went straight for his fly. Sam groaned. Sprang free, hard already, as Dean wrestled off Sam’s jeans and undershorts, down past his hips. Sam stumbled, sat. Dean moved quick, knelt across his lap and hooked his chin. Raked teeth on Sam’s bottom lip and ground his hips down. Denim dragged. Sam sucked a breath.

Dean tipped them sideways, nose-to-nose. He threw a leg across and balled his fists in Sam’s damp collar. Bowled him over. Sam panted. Wormed and wedged some space between them, just enough to work Dean’s button open, zipper down. Dean’s dick pulsed against his knuckles, strained soft cotton.

“Fuck, yeah, man.” Dean yanked Sam’s head back, mouthed his neck. “Like this. Can’t wait. Wanna see you come.”

Sam jolted. Dean traced tendons with his teeth. Sucked at the skin.

“Wanna bruise you up, like the old days.”

Sam shook. Fucking possessive. Dean always used to pepper him with hickeys if they had to separate.

_“Don’t care if you bag you a side-piece, Sammy, but they’re gonna know. You’re mine.”_

Sam squirmed, wrestled Dean’s dick out. Dean rumbled against him. Eyes rolled back.

“Them hands, man,” Dean growled. Thrust in Sam’s grip. “Do us both. Fuck, I missed this.”

Hard and sensitized, Sam looped them together. Ragged moaning. Sweating. Leaking. Let his brother set their pace. Dean fucked his hand, rubbed off on him. Bedsprings screamed.

“Ain’t gonna last long,” Dean warned. “Jesus, man, you’re killing me.”

Sam squeezed tighter.

Dean gasped. “Yeah, come on, Sammy, give it up. Blow for me, I can’t—”

Fireworks. Dean’s name. Hot sparks in yellow-gold.

“So fuckin’—” Dean cut off, locked up, yelled. Soaked Sam’s shirt and both their jeans.

Sam blinked back tears, grit his teeth and kept jerking. Dean kissed him, unhinged and sloppy. Aftershocks rocked him. Balls ached. Slick-scalding mess and no more rhythm.

Dean flipped, rolled Sam under. Ducked his head and sucked below Sam’s jaw, swiped with his tongue. Sam quaked. Thrust up. Hooked his legs and pinned Dean closer.

“God, Dean.” Finally, words came back. He could almost smell burnt hay, see lights, hear sirens.

“Nah,” Dean smirked, burned Sam alive. “God’s got nothing to do with this.” He licked his lips.

Sam laughed. Hysterics. Dean brushed back his hair and let it clear Sam’s system.

“You and me,” Dean whispered. “Just us. Just like always.”

Breeze blew. Branches rustled. Somewhere out there, owls called.

Sam nodded. He… had _faith_.

_“I believe in us.”_

Chuck had tried, how many times? He’d used their dad, the angels, Cain and Lucifer, two separate Michaels.

“Come on.” Dean stood up. Stuck out a hand. “I got towels and wet wipes in the duffel. Let’s clean up.” Cool lantern LED backlit him. Made him look like something holy.

“Dean, I—”

“Wanna thank me for being an awesome big brother? I know.”

“You’re full of shit.” Sam took his hand. “You realize that.”

Dean dragged him up. Shrugged, “You love it.”

Yeah, Sam really did.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post here](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/622738754865709056/ficlet-patriots)


End file.
